


Heads Will Roll

by youcrashstanding



Series: Le Disko Verse [2]
Category: The Avengers (2012), Thor (Movies)
Genre: F/F, Trickster gods do what they want
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-30
Updated: 2013-04-30
Packaged: 2017-12-09 23:48:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/779371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcrashstanding/pseuds/youcrashstanding
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is a sequel to Le Disko. I guess you don't HAVE to read Le Disko, but... seriously, just go read it. *rubs hands together*</p>
    </blockquote>





	Heads Will Roll

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thisiswhatthewatergaveme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisiswhatthewatergaveme/gifts).



> This is a sequel to Le Disko. I guess you don't HAVE to read Le Disko, but... seriously, just go read it. *rubs hands together*

Darcy Lewis is covered in glitter and whisky and a little blood; it goes nice with her shirt, she thinks, and ignores that a little of it's still on her knuckles. She dances, hands up, eyes closed, hair falling in heavy waves down her back as she sings along with the music, the press and swell of the bodies around her drags her under, lifts her up; the dance floor is one complex living organism, hot breath and pounding hearts and slick skin. 

Time passes in a hazy throbbing blur, and the moment Darcy thinks it's another wasted night is the moment she hears a low, lilting voice purr, "You smell of someone else's blood," in her ear. She spins, gives a happy yip of sound and wraps her hands around Loki's narrow shoulders, fingers brushing over the soft black silk of the cocktail dress draped around Loki's tall, lean frame; her small breasts are damn near eye-level for Darcy, and she gives them an appreciative nuzzle, not giving a fuck who sees them.

"Dude copped a feel so I felt his nose with my fist a few times," Darcy explains, before adding, "how you know it isn't mine, though, that's..."

Loki runs her hand lightly through Darcy's hair, dismissing the would be question, fingers coming away with silver glitter. She runs her fingers over it, sprinkles it between them; it floats through the air and plasters itself to her chest and across Darcy's shirt; Darcy laughs and pulls Loki closer, grinds against her as the music's tempo increases, and conversations about blood and whatever weird shit lets Loki know anything about  _hers_ are forgotten in favor of mouths and hands and the warm firm line of their bodies, lost in the push of the crowd and the flashing lights from above. 

 _I could do this forever_ , Darcy thinks; lose hours and hours here against a goddess; crawl into some dark corner and find new heights of pleasure betraying every other moment of her life's loyalties; could stare into those bright green eyes and drown and wonder where the rage goes. It's never here, after all, it's never with  _them_ , no matter how it spills out into war zones and levels city streets and Asgard and wherever else Loki is; it's  _not here,_ and Darcy wonders, sometimes, if it's because there's no expectation here, no discussion of the Avengers or Thor, in particular, if it's because this form means something  _different;_ it's deep shit, late at night, alone in her room. Deep shit that makes her wonder if she's a waste of time or a distraction or a game. Here and now, though, those thoughts are impossible and everything is want and need and ache and pleasure and exhilaration.

Maybe Loki can read her thoughts. Maybe Loki knows shit before she thinks it; Darcy has no idea how it works and Loki never answers serious questions; all the same Loki wraps a hand around her wrist and they are weaving through the crowd; not to a bathroom, not to the balconies above or the lower levels or that corner with the velvet couch; they are making their way outside and Darcy makes a sound of protest; it's fucking pouring rain out and as much as she wants to fuck she doesn't want to do it in a flooded alley. Loki ignores her and stalks artfully across the wet sidewalk to the edge of the street, ignoring the rain as she gives a ridiculously elegant wave at a taxi coming down the street.

"Wait, what?" Darcy asks, "Where the shit are we going now?" Because they've not done this, yet, and Darcy wonders how wise it is to go to a second location with a ridiculously hot trickster god.

"Afraid?"

"A little?"

"Excellent."

She hauls open the door and suddenly they are inside and the door is closed and for some reason Darcy has no fucking clue what Loki's just said to the driver; she narrows her eyes suspiciously behind her glasses and Loki laughs, draws her in and kisses her hard, ignoring the surprised look in the cabbie's rearview, and for blocks and blocks of stop and go traffic they're making out like schoolgirls under the bleachers, hot and heavy and hands travelling everywhere they shouldn't be; Darcy's sure, damned sure that the cabbie can't be seeing everything she's seeing because there's a sudden ripple, a  _current_  and the mouth she's kissing isn't the same mouth at all, isn't nearly so soft, the curves are gone, and holy shit, shit shit shit, she's being pulled into  **Loki's**  lap, real Loki,  _male_  Loki and it's the first time in  _ages_  that she's seen him, the first time  _ever_  she's touched him, and here she is, thighs around his hips in the back of a fucking yellow cab, here he is, perfect cheekbones and wild black hair and those eyes, and it's  _startling_  what's the same and what isn't _._ The more than ample bulge pressed against the crotch of her jeans, for one. Her throat goes dry, she licks her lips and tries to swallow and he's pulling her down into another kiss, hard and hot and electric and Darcy melts against him, loses her words entirely and half wishes she had her fucking taser.

The cabbie  _does_ see because he swerves, curses, starts yelling about  _where did the other woman go? Who the fuck are you?_  And Loki breaks the kiss to give a rich, razor sharp laugh. He looks good when he laughs; crueler, maybe, because everything is just suddenly so much sharper and she can see that edge there, that missing piece that had made making love to a beautiful woman a hell of a lot less scary than straddling the handsome feral thing beneath her now. He definitely looks good, in form fitting black jeans and a wolf-grey button down that's half opened, and Darcy realizes her fingers are why the stupid thing is open and she bends to plant a kiss on his collarbone and he gives a growl of pleasure, wraps a hand in her hair and presses lips to her throat, then teeth, and she goes liquid again, rolls her eyes back and moans and leans into it, grits her teeth, wants more more more.

They're not in the cab anymore, it's stopped and they're spilling out and he's carrying her and they are still kissing and did they even pay the cabbie? Does it matter? The rain is pounding around them so hard it's like it's raining up, bouncing off the sidewalk, blinding, sideways, and it doesn't seem to matter one fucking bit, because they're wet, but not getting any wetter. "I... you..."

"You did say you didn't have a preference of gender at our last tryst, did you not?" Loki asks.

"I did say... yes." It's easier to think, to talk, when Loki's mouth isn't anywhere on her person; she realizes she is still being carried and for a moment it's awkward, but fuck it, he started this shit, he can deal with it; she wiggles around to wrap an arm around his shoulders, nuzzles her head against his shoulder, bites thoughtfully, "I did indeed say that. I just didn't expect uh, you know, right in the middle of my hand being up your skirt. And also," she adds, clearing her throat, peering up at him through the water on her glasses, "This is the first time I've been this close to,"

"Me."

"Well, yeah."

"Thinking, perhaps, that you mispoke?" he asks mildly, but Darcy can feel the edge beneath the words, and wonders if it's fear or thrill or stubbornness that makes her kiss him, nip his lower lip, regroup, and then attempt to climb down his throat.

"No," she tells him, wrapping a hand in his hair to pull his head to the side so she can bite him again, "No, I did not mispeak, good sir, I will fuck you whether you're a red fish or a blue fish, but last time I saw your pretty man face was on SHIELD's surveillance and you were all horned and armored and then, you know,  _muzzled_ , which, Jesus Christ, hot, but... yeah. I dunno. Less... intimidating with tits. Not because tits aren't intimidating, mind," she's going on, and on, and realizing they are heading up to her apartment, and how did she not notice that before? How did... no, never mind, not a question to ask right now. "They're very intimidating but it wasn't, you know,  _that body_  wrecking my friends and shit, you know?"

"I suppose I do," Loki muses, depositing her at the elevator just inside the doors.

Darcy hits the button, laughs, and says, "dear holy God somehow this makes me more terrible, doesn't it? I'm more terrible now because of you. I am the worst."

"You certainly are."

"Inviting you into my abode."

"Your integrity is entirely gone, at this point," Loki agrees, and as Darcy steps into the elevator, she wonders if panic is smarter than desire; but the panic is going, or at least, it's taking a backseat, feet up, fucking around on a Gameboy, letting the insanity truck on by. 

"How long have you known where I live?" she asks idly, sliding her eyes over to the god lounging casually in the corner, watching the numbers go up. He doesn't look out of sorts in the slightest. He looks downright casual, as if he didn't almost cause a wreck or dry hump her out in the rain in a place he shouldn't know about yet.

"Since the first time I kissed you," Loki replies evenly, and she gives him a look that makes him chuckle; she slips out of the elevator ahead of him, striding purposefully towards her apartment door, ignoring the squishing noises her soaked shoes are making; he glides behind her like a silent shadow. She unlocks the door, and he is upon her. They tumble inside, and the door shuts without anyone touching it; she's not used to the obvious magic, not used to seeing him move inhumanly fast, and she wonders just how much of this shit he's been holding back; it's weird and kind of sexy, because Darcy has no sense of self preservation.

It is the most graceful stagger to her bed that she's ever experienced; he is above her and she locks her legs around his hips, grinds up into him as they kiss, her wrists crossed at the nape of his neck, and she feels small, wee, and fragile; he is so much bigger than her like this. Taller, broader and his muscles are like steel under his smooth, pale skin; he is wiry and hard and built like a jungle predator. Her hands creep under his shirt now, exploring him, fingers gliding along his ribs, the planes of his stomach, fumbling for the button of his pants, and he gives a low laugh, licks the hollow of her throat and she groans, breathless, needing, heart hammering away in her chest; the jeans open, and Darcy triumphantly slides a hand inside, takes him in her grasp, and good gods... yes, okay, they're doing this. She isn't sorry when she tears his shirt open, isn't sorry when she sinks teeth into his chest, a sharp little bite that's probably nothing at all to him. He groans, eyes flashing, amused when she growls, "lay down, I'm on top," and he rolls gracefully onto his back, stretches out there amongst her pillows as if he totally belongs there. She bites her lower lip, slips out of her shirt, tosses it to the floor, and straddles him, thighs around his. She cannot hide her grin at his appreciative glance towards her more than ample cleavage. Her bra is green and shiny and her tits look fucking fantastic in it. Obviously.

"Still epic, eh?" she asks, wiggling her eyebrows, and he leans forward, pressing his mouth to the top of her left breast, stringing kisses along the soft, rounded skin. She shifts, pants, as he pulls the fabric down enough to free a nipple, rolling it lightly in his mouth, sucking, nipping just so, and she's lost to a string of curses and pleases as his fingers nimbly unfasten the bra and slide it down her torso. She leans back, slips it off, and he pulls her back to him, planting kisses from her throat to her breasts, tongue gliding across her damp skin. She slides a hand down his chest, across his stomach, grazes the shaft of his cock and he growls in pleasure. She likes that sound, it's deep and rumbling and kind of scary and it's fucking _good_  and she wants to hear it again, wants it louder and longer and they're melding again, mouth to mouth, her hand around his erection, his sliding down to cup her ass, and moments later that cultured purring voice is telling her to undress, and she is doing just that, slipping off of him, off of the bed, to stand and slide out of her wet as shit jeans, kicking off her shoes and socks and hey, she's wearing real underwear today, not superhero pants, and he muses that he's a little disappointed.

"Really?" she asks, peeling the panties off. Naked, she feels more confident,  and maybe it's just that wet jeans cramp her style. She climbs back onto the bed on all fours, makes her way up those ridiculously long legs and flashes her best sultry look, and it works, it definitely works because he pulls her the rest of the way up, holds her close, and kisses her again like he's going to drink her down. His hand is between her legs, familiar and not, and she realizes with her face against the curve of his throat that he kind of smells the same. Those long fingers slide inside of her and she moans, shudders. "Fuck me," she groans, "I don't care what we do later. But right now. Fuck me. I'm going to ride your skinny ass into the mattress."

He laughs, rich and touchable and thick and his elegant hands are wrapped around her hips maneuvering her as if she weighs nothing at all. He slides inside her, and neither of them are wasting any time being slow or teasing; it is fast and hard from the get-go; she knows she's going to have bruises on her hips and she gives not a single fuck. She rides the pretty Asgardian beneath her, writhing and rolling her hips to meet his every thrust. She throws her head back, howls when he hits spots men always seem to miss, yelps because she's suddenly in the air and then on her back and her thighs are clamped around his hips and he's fucking  _her_ into the mattress, and it's just as good, maybe more so because now she can get a mouthful of that pale shoulder, and she can feel his gaze on her heavy and intense and she can't meet it, can't because the mischief is gone for the moment and this is just wild and far out balls-to-the-wall  porno style fucking, both of them growling filth and biting and her nails rake furrows down his back, and her fingers are bloody for the second time tonight and sometimes that's a little too much for her, but not now, because he's not pausing or wincing or looking at all like it bothers him, no, he's moving faster and saying shit she can't even comprehend and she loses her goddamn mind to an orgasm that leaves her senseless and whimpering beneath him, vision gone black, thighs trembling, gasping, and he is still going, he finishes about half a minute after her; she turns her head to see shreds of her  _fucking mattress_  beneath his fingers, and her eyes widen.

"Sweet baby JESUS. You killed my bed."

"I'm not at all sorry," he breathes.

"Me either. Because we're not done."

"No," Loki agrees, "We are not."

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed this. It kind of wrote itself. There's probably going to be another chapter, but don't go expecting a lot of plot. I mean, I know, sad trombone.... drop me a line over at youcrashquims.tumblr.com . I like fandom folks. :}


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